Restaurant Redacted

We'll call it Restaurant Redacted.

I started washing dishes there about a month ago. I was the only straight guy there--it was that kind of restaurant, in that part of town. The line cooks were all queer.

There was Gabe. Cute body, slightly fat, big ass, very proud of their fledgling beard.

Gail, a chubby car geek whose powerful voice could be heard anywhere in the kitchen if they willed it.

Jack, tall, bulky, insistently gay, could charm you into buying ice water in the arctic.

And Chef, an old-school lesbian, tough-looking but soft-spoken.

Being on dish, I was the last station open each night. Since I was new, Chef assigned Jack to help me close. The two of us were usually the last to leave.

Jack flirted with everybody. At first, it put me off, but, as the weeks rolled on, I felt at home with him. I started responded to Jack's cheeky remarks in kind.

I didn't think anything of it. It felt like a game. Guys being guys, nudging each other's comfort zones.

One night, when it was just him and me, I said something that I immediately thought went too far--something like, "If I wanted to try being with a guy, you'd be the first one I'd ask."

Instead of his usual witty rejoinder, he just grinned. We finished closing in maddening silence.

We binned our aprons and took out the trash. Then we went out to the front of house, to the time clock behind the bar.

The work was done. The building was silent. The only light came through the porthole on the kitchen door.

Usually, we'd clock out, then go our separate ways, or make small talk on our way to our cars.

Instead, we just stood there.

And I was seized by an impulse I couldn't explain.

I asked him, "Can I kiss you?"

We made out against the counter behind the bar.

His lips were soft, his tongue wet and aggressive. His hands roamed, which encouraged mine to roam as well.

I didn't expect it to feel so natural, so ordinary. But then, I hadn't known what to expect.

"You're the newbie," he said. "You have to go first."

Propelled by some primal rhythm I didn't understand, I got on my knees. He got his cock out. It seemed big.

I wrapped my fingers around it and put my mouth on the end of it.

He was warm, and though he was rigid, he was softer than I'd imagined. The head felt mushroomlike on the tip of my tongue. He didn't taste like much of anything.

The first few minutes were awkward. With his coaching, I became more confident. He told me how to let my mouth well up with spit, how to let my hand do much of the work on the length of it.

I suckled, bobbed, and tongued the end of him. To my surprise, he blurted out that he would come if I kept going.

So I did.

I've never had semen in my mouth before, not even my own. I thought I would be repulsed, but I wasn't.

It was pleasantly thick, a little savory, a little bitter. It jetted out of him against the flat of my tongue in powerful bursts. Not knowing what else to do, I swallowed each one.

He beckoned me to my feet and he kissed me--it didn't occur to me that men would kiss after a blowjob.

Then I felt his hand on me, cupping the hard ridge behind my fly.

He said, "Want me to return the favor?"

I'd gotten my cock sucked before, and while I enjoyed it well enough, it never did much for me.

With Jack, it was different. He pooched his soft lips around my cock and bobbed his head enthusiastically, teasing out the best way to pleasure me, with great focus and precision.

It wasn't just that he was good at it. There was a transgressiveness to it, of getting sucked off by another man, by a coworker, in our workplace. Of maybe being caught, of not really caring.

I came very quickly, and though my nerves had me a little in my head, it was still a great orgasm.

Jack stood up, took a paper napkin from the dispenser, and deposited my semen into it. He crumpled it and tossed it in the trash bin.

We walked to our cars.

We said nothing about it. Not that night. Not ever.